“Mother,” he said, taking her gently by the arm as he knelt at her side, “if you will rise I will speak to you.”
“Your words will kill me,” she said. “I do not dare to look at you. Oh! Lucius, will you ever forgive me?”
And yet she had done it all for him. She had done a rascally deed, an hideous cutthroat deed, but it had been done altogether for him. No thought of her own aggrandisement had touched her mind when she resolved upon that forgery. As Rebekah had deceived her lord and robbed Esau, the firstborn, of his birthright, so had she robbed him who was as Esau to her. How often had she thought of that, while her conscience was pleading hard against her! Had it been imputed as a crime to Rebekah that she had loved her own son well, and loving him had put a crown upon his head by means of her matchless guile? Did she love Lucius, her babe, less than Rebekah had loved Jacob? And had she not striven with the old man, struggling that she might do this just thing without injustice, till in his anger he had thrust her from him. “I will not break my promise for the brat,” the old man had said;—and then she did the deed. But all that was as nothing now. She felt no comfort now from that Bible story which had given her such encouragement before the thing was finished. Now the result of evildoing had come full home to her, and she was seeking pardon with a broken heart, while burning tears furrowed her cheeks—not from him whom she had thought to injure, but from the child of her own bosom, for whose prosperity she had been so anxious.
Then she slowly arose and allowed him to place her upon the sofa. “Mother,” he said, “it is all over here.”
“Ah! yes.”
“Whither we had better go, I cannot yet say—or when. We must wait till this day is ended.”
“Lucius, I care nothing for myself—nothing. It is nothing to me whether or no they say that I am guilty. It is of you only that I am thinking.”
“Our lot, mother, must still be together. If they find you guilty you will be imprisoned, and then I will go, and come back when they release you. For you and me the future world will be very different from the past.”
“It need not be so—for you, Lucius. I do not wish to keep you near me now.”
“But I shall be near you. Where you hide your shame there will I hide mine. In this world there is nothing left for us. But there is another world before you—if you can repent of your sin.” This too he said very sternly, standing somewhat away from her, and frowning the while with those gloomy eyebrows. Sad as was her condition he might have given her solace, could he have taken her by the hand and kissed her. Peregrine Orme would have done so, or Augustus Staveley, could it have been possible that they should have found themselves in that position. Though Lucius Mason could not do so, he was not less just than they, and, it may be, not less loving in his heart. He could devote himself for his mother’s sake as absolutely as could they. But to some is given and to some is denied that cruse of heavenly balm with which all wounds can be assuaged and sore hearts ever relieved of some portion of their sorrow. Of all the virtues with which man can endow himself surely none other is so odious as that justice which can teach itself to look down upon mercy almost as a vice!
“I will not ask you to forgive me,” she said, plaintively.
“Mother,” he answered, “were I to say that I forgave you my words would be a mockery. I have no right either to condemn or to forgive. I accept my position as it has been made for me, and will endeavour to do my duty.”
It would have been almost better for her that he should have upbraided her for her wickedness. She would then have fallen again prostrate before him, if not in body at least in spirit, and her weakness would have stood for her in place of strength. But now it was necessary that she should hear his words and bear his looks—bear them like a heavy burden on her back without absolutely sinking. It had been that necessity of bearing and never absolutely sinking which, during years past, had so tried and tested the strength of her heart and soul. Seeing that she had not sunk, we may say that her strength had been very wonderful.
And then she stood up and came close to him. “But you will give me your hand, Lucius?”
“Yes, mother; there is my hand. I shall stand by you through it all.” But he did not offer to kiss her; and there was still some pride in her heart which would not allow her to ask him for an embrace.
“And now,” he said, “it is time that you should prepare to go. Mrs. Orme thinks it better that I should not accompany you.”
“No, Lucius, no; you must not hear them proclaim my guilt in court.”
“That would make but little difference. But nevertheless I will not go. Had I known this before I should not have gone there. It was to testify my belief in your innocence; nay, my conviction—”
“Oh, Lucius, spare me!”
“Well, I will speak of it no more. I shall be here tonight when you come back.”
“But if they say that I am guilty they will take me away.”
“If so I will come to you—in the morning if they will let me. But, mother, in any case I must leave this house tomorrow.” Then again he gave her his hand, but he left her without
